William’s eighteen-year-old platoon mates weren’t that lucky.
Maybe that was why William refused to call them friends—not because he didn’t care about them, but because he did. And he could not stand the pain of losing them. He kept them alive, and forever young.
May 6, 1968
It was early morning, still dark. Time to fall out. I sat on the ground and slipped my arms through the straps of my rucksack, then held out my hands. Victor Cruz pulled me to my feet. In the bush, I use a tree to stand. I was halfway out of the bunker when I touched the pockets on my flak jacket and realized I didn’t have my Tiger tin with my journal and pencils. I found it on my bunk and tucked it into the vertical pocket near my heart, where Longhorn kept the tin. One more thing for Charlie to penetrate if he wants to kill me.
Cruz assures me he does.
It rained earlier, which Cruz said was just Vietnam pissing on us, not the start of the monsoon season. The heavy rain turned the firebase into reddish-brown slop. I thought about pulling out my poncho from my pack, but that would have necessitated me dropping the pack and starting all over again. My nerves cried out for a cigarette, but we had been told no cigarettes, since we would be walking out from the firebase instead of taking the CH-46 transport helicopters. The company, 212 marines, walked out silent, so Charlie wouldn’t know we were coming.
I fall under Charlie Company, First Platoon, Third Squad （one-three）。 Charlie Company is commanded by Captain Dennis Martinez. Lieutenant Brad Dickson runs the First Platoon. He came on board about three weeks ago. Cruz runs the Third Squad. There’s been a bit of a power struggle because Dickson has been in-country less than a month, straight out of OCS, and Cruz is in the middle of his second tour, almost all of it spent in the bush. Cruz has seen everything and anything, but Dickson seems intent on telling Cruz what to do, a playground power play. Cruz told me not to worry about it, that Captain Martinez has his back.
Bean told me if Dickson doesn’t listen and puts him in danger, he’ll frag his ass in the bush, which means roll a frag grenade up behind him.
The first guy from our company outside the wire was Whippet, a gung-ho marine from Idaho who asked to go first. We call him Whippet because he’s built like one of those lean dogs with the pointed face and he has boundless energy. We were to fall out one at a time, three meters between us. Whippet made the sign of the cross, kissed the crucifix hanging around his neck, gave all of us a big grin and a thumbs-up, and stepped outside the wire. I’d been outside the wire, but this time felt different. This felt real. We expected to engage Charlie, to engage the NVA. I had goose bumps on my arms and tingling up and down my spine and along the nape of my neck. My entire body was a bundle of nerves, adrenaline, and anxiety.
Guys who have been here awhile say the tingling is a premonition of death. I think they’re joking. I hope they’re joking.
Cruz smiled when I reached the wire. “You ready, Shutter?”
I nodded.
“You got your film?”
“Yeah,” I said, but my throat and mouth were dry, and the word came out as a croak.
“Let’s hope you don’t have to use it. I like my search-and-destroy humping the way I like my helicopter rides.”
“What?” I asked, uncertain I had heard him correctly.
“Boring.” He smiled.
I returned the smile, but mentally I was having images of a helicopter crashing and burning.
Chapter 14
July 13, 1979
During each softball game that summer, I felt like I was sitting on a keg of gunpowder about to explode. With Greg and others yelling insults at the other team’s players, an explosion was inevitable and, I believe, provoked on this Friday night so that we’d forfeit the game and no longer be undefeated. Teams couldn’t beat us on the field, so they took a different tack. They all knew the league had warned us about our behavior.
This night the chirping started in the second inning. I don’t recall what was said by who, but the umpires warned both benches we’d forfeit if the chirping got worse. That was usually all we needed to hear. The Northpark Yankees were in first place. None of us wanted to forfeit a game and risk wrecking an undefeated season.
With a runner on first base, the opposing team’s batter hit a screaming line drive to Louie, our third baseman. Louie fielded the ball cleanly and winged it to me covering second base. I grabbed the ball, turned, and fired to first base. The runner breaking toward second base, although clearly out, ducked under the ball and hit me with his shoulder, like a linebacker, planting me hard on the dirt infield. I would have yelled, but I couldn’t find my voice. The guy had knocked the wind out of me.